


kifka, my driver

by ornery



Category: The Split (1968)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, California - 1960s, Evangeline is 18, F/M, Harry is 46, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Older Man/Younger Woman, Seduction, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:34:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23512465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ornery/pseuds/ornery
Summary: TAGS WILL BE ADDED AS STORY PROGRESSES.Summer in Los Angeles was not exactly Harry's favorite time of the year to be a limousine driver.The only upside was prom season.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Harry Kifka (The Split (1968))





	kifka, my driver

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Quarantining!
> 
> * (05/19/20) Minor grammar changes. Does not require reread.

Summer in Los Angeles was not exactly Harry's favorite time of the year. It was three long, muggy months of annoyances. The heat was sweltering to the point of exhaustion. Everyone under twenty-five was hogging the roads on their way to the beach. Gas prices were through the goddamn roof. 

The only upside was prom season. It was becoming increasingly popular for students to hire a chauffeur if they didn't have their own car. Most of them went in groups and split the costs, but Harry saw more couples than anything else. Many a time, he had been forced to pull over and stop the intense lovemaking in his backseat.

On this particular Friday night, at six-thirty, he was to be a prom escort for the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Woodridge, both prominent realtors in the Bel Air area. They hadn't specified who she was driving with to Marymount High School. It wasn't as though he cared, although it was always nice to be given a heads-up of how many teenagers he would have to deal with.

Harry already spent five minutes standing near the hood of his Chrysler and was about to collapse from sunstroke. He could hear a commotion behind the front door, as he was a few feet from the Woodridges' sizable Colonial Revival. No doubt, it was the family sending their daughter and her date off to their final high school dance.

He rolled his eyes.

Said commotion abruptly burst through the threshold, and a river of people spilled out. It was a whirlwind of whooping, laughing, crying, and clapping. Leading it all was a sight that made Harry's pants tight. A beautiful darling, no older than eighteen, with heavy-lidded eyes and lips plump like a peach. Sun-kissed skin wrapped in a white formal gown. A body of every man's wet dream: lithe physique, generously wide hips, and an inviting pair of tits.

He noticed how the Woodridge daughter's wrist was devoid of a corsage. And upon further inspection, he saw that she was utterly alone – no friends, no date, no one. Just her.

When she stopped at the limousine, Harry made to casually maneuver his hands in front of his ever-growing problem. He straightened himself, probably more than necessary. "Miss Woodridge," he said, tipping his hat down and grinning like an absolute moron.

"Hello," the girl beamed. 

He opened the door to the backseat. "Shall we?" 

She turned to face her mother and father, and bid them good-bye with a hug. Then she gathered the floral train of her dress to her hip, granting Harry a good look at her legs, and gracefully slid inside the car.

Once she was situated, he shut the door behind her. "What time would you like her home, Missus Woodridge?" Harry inquired. It was perfectly innocent, but he couldn't ignore the fact that it was often a question asked by the prom date – while having every intention of pounding her raw under the bleachers. 

A question asked if the girl actually had the prom date.

Mrs. Woodridge was dabbing her eyes with a mascara-smeared tissue. Clearly, a woman who was in high school when she gave birth to her only child, but who was also sporting a fair share of grey streaks and wrinkles. Her makeup did little to conceal her age, whereas her disposition betrayed it. "Oh, it's entirely up to Evangeline! Our baby can stay out as long as she wants. She deserves it after all of her hard work. She's graduating at the top of her class, you know," she gushed.

Mr. Woodridge, a great beast of a man, clunked his way beside his wife. He grunted, "You can send us the bill tomorrow. You can do that, can't you?"

"Uh– of course, Mister Woodridge. That's no problem at all."

"Wonderful!" Mrs. Woodridge squeaked.

Nodding, Harry jogged around the back of the Chrysler and climbed into the driver's seat. In the rearview mirror, he watched Evangeline wave at her hysterical relatives as he pulled off the curb and started down the street. Quick mental math on his part surmised that it would take half an hour to reach their destination.

"Refreshments are in the fridge, and the remote for the T.V. is to your right, Miss Woodridge," he said.

"Oh, it's Effie, please! Only my maids call me 'Miss Woodridge.' Ever since I was a baby. I can't stand it," she giggled. "And I'd rather talk to you – if you don't mind, Mister...?"

Usually, he wouldn't bother conversing with clients; that was what the television and miniature refrigerator were for. He would have installed a partition too if he had the funds to do so. Small talk just wasn't the normal thing to do in this business anymore.

"Kifka. Harry Kifka. And I wouldn't mind at all, Miss Wood– Uh, right, I mean, Effie," he hesitated. "You must be looking forward to the dance. Your family sure seemed excited."

"We Woodridges excite easily. And they see tonight as a much more significant occasion than I do. "

Harry took a right turn and caught a glimpse of her smile in the mirror. He chuckled, "I hear you, sweetheart. When I was your age, school dances weren't as big as they are now. Thank Christ. I wouldn't have gotten a date even if I paid for one."

"I highly doubt that, Mister Kifka. I'm sure you were just as handsome then as you are now," she said.

He nearly swerved off the side of the road at that, but he kept a firm reign on himself and gripped the steering wheel a bit harder. A polite, albeit uneasy laugh was all he could utter at the moment.

Perhaps it was the heat, perhaps it was the constricting sensation in his pants, but Harry swore that Effie looked positively tickled at her chauffeur being rendered speechless.

And yet, she acted like she didn't realize what she was going. The white polish on her fingernails was more interesting than her flirtations with a man older than her father. But the smallest trace of a smirk gave her ruse away.

Keeping his left hand on the wheel, Harry reached around in the glove compartment for his case of cigars. He needed one if he wanted to survive the next twenty minutes with this temptress. He retrieved a Manikin and let it hang from the corner of his mouth.

"You mind if I smoke, sweetheart?" he asked as he fiddled with his lighter, still managing to keep the car straight.

"Sure. Go ahead. My parents don't smoke, but I catch the maids sneaking joints all the time. They give me one so I don't snitch on them," Effie said. "Can I have a cigar?"

"Ah, I don't know—"

"Oh, please, Mister Kifka? I promise my parents won't notice. And if they do, I'll tell them my friends were smoking on the football field."

How could he refuse such a beauty?

"All right, all right. Just put it out before you leave," Harry huffed. He took the cigar case and maneuvered it behind him so that the girl could grab one. Then he passed her the lighter.

"How come you aren't driving with your friends tonight? I thought carpooling to dances was all the rage these days."

Effie waved her hand before lighting the head of the cigar. "They all got dates," she replied bluntly.

He scoffed, "I find it hard to believe a pretty girl like you couldn't find herself a date."

The sight of Effie with the large cigar between her plush lips was almost enough to send him into a frenzy. His cock was pressing against his zipper, as though begging to be in the cigar's place. A pained groan escaped his throat before he could help it.

"You think I'm pretty, Mister Kifka?" Effie grinned. She seemed to be – for lack of a better word – sucking on the cigar's end. After taking a long drag, she pulled back and released a plume of smoke. She hummed, "Hmph, not as good as pot, but it'll do."

Jesus, this girl was going to be the death of him.

Sweat began to bead at the collar of his dress shirt. He ran a hand over the side of his neck and croaked, "Never picked you as a stoner. Ever thought about what Mister and Missus Woodridge would think?" 

"They would think I'm possessed by the Devil and have me on a one-way trip to the nearest convent," Effie giggled. "You know, they want me to wait till marriage. They think if I don't get knocked up at seventeen like my mother, I'll start some precedent. They're very traditional people."

"Um, I think that's reasonable, don't you?" Harry said in a small voice. He knew he was being a hypocrite. All he wanted to do was stop the Chrysler and have his way with the girl, not lecture her on premarital sex.

"Well, what they don't know won't hurt them."

Fuck.

"I bet your parents were traditional people. Didn't you ever sneak stuff around them when you were my age?"

He stammered, "Wha– I, I guess so. Sure—"

"Did you wait till marriage, Mister Kifka?" Effie punctuated her inquiry with another drag. She stared at him in the mirror, her eyes never leaving his. Her tongue moved across her bottom lip.

Harry tried not to look inconspicuous while he drove with one hand and readjusted his straining cock with the other. He glanced at his wristwatch and noted that he was trapped for fifteen more minutes. "That's kind of personal, sweetheart. And not to mention inappropriate," he attempted.

"I can't imagine you did. A man like you, you look like the type of man who just takes what he wants."

"I don't—"

"Do you want me, Mister Kifka?"

Before either of them knew what was happening, his foot slammed on the brakes. He didn't care that he put the car in park without pulling off to the side, even as the cars behind them blared their horns in anger. He didn't care that he inevitably broke the pedal and will have to pay for another one. He didn't care that he nearly sent his passenger flying through the windshield.

All he cared about was the little minx with the dirty mouth.

Turning to look at her, Harry felt both a pang of guilt and a spear of satisfaction at the look of shock on her face, the sultry act having been wiped off. He tore the cigar from his mouth, "Now look, sweetheart, I don't know what kind of game you think this is. But I ain't playing. I don't think you realize how big a deal your parents are in this city. And how big a deal it is for them to pay me to drive your spoiled behind to prom. Not everyone grows up with diamonds and maids. This business is all I got. And I'm not about to have some goddamned Lolita-wannabe ruin it!"

Truth be told, he wasn't expecting such a rant. And telling by Effie's gasp, she wasn't either. He softened, "I'm a good guy, honest. I'm not a creep. I don't do this job for any reason other than the money. And I'm sorry I called you that. I didn't mean it."

Effie refused to meet his eyes. She was clutching at the leather cushions. The cigar she had been smoking was long forgotten on the floor. "Take me home," she whispered. Her hand trembled as she moved a fallen piece of hair back into place.

"Effie, please, I said I was—"

She looked up, absolutely livid, and hissed, "I said, 'Take me home'!"

"Yes, Miss Woodridge," Harry sighed. He returned the car to drive and swung the Chrysler around.


End file.
